


The Delivery

by Caenea



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Bottom Q, Established BDSM Relationship, Established Relationship, M/M, No Negotiation, POV Q, Q is a randy sod, Smut, Top James Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 08:25:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11055108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: James has ordered something special and it's finally arrived. Q is only too eager to test it out and hurries home to his lover.





	The Delivery

**Author's Note:**

> This work originally appeared on my now defunct Tumblr account under the title Velvet Floggers and Silken Ropes. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed rediscovering it while going through my Dropbox to clean it up a little... 
> 
> And by clean it up, I mean my Dropbox, not this story which is pure filth. Comments, kudos etc all make me a happy sinner.

It's still and silent outside, the harbinger of a storm. It's hot too, and the sweat beads under my shirt as I walk home slowly. My laptop bag feels heavy on my shoulders, and idly I think about the bath I can have when I finally get home. Bath, wine, bed. Bond. Bliss.

 

I turn into the street, and I can see light on in our flat. Most of the street is dark, a reflection to the fact that it's damn near midnight and most normal people finished up work hours ago. I wouldn't be done yet - but. Oh, but. _He_ phoned, told me about a package in the mail. Made me promise to play Cinderella, and be home before midnight. And I promised, and here I am, almost an hour earlier than I thought, because I just couldn't wait any longer. So I called, and told him I was leaving, and he'd given that chuckle like dark honey and said I was a naughty, greedy boy and I'd laughed and agreed. I cross the street, footsteps echoing almost eerily in the deadly stillness that heralds the storm. I get my key in the lock despite the fact that anticipation has put a tremor in my hands. I call his name tentatively and slick the door closed quietly, throwing the deadbolt and turning the key. Only when I've dropped my keys in the bowl and put my laptop bag on the floor with a sigh of relief for my aching shoulders does he emerge from our darkened bedroom, smiling at me and glorious in his nakedness. I take two minutes, drink him in, relish in the sight, and only when I've looked my fill do I go to him, accept his kiss and surrender with a sigh.

 

He must feel me go pliant in his arms, because he wraps his arms around me and picks me off my feet. I automatically wrap my legs around him, sigh against his mouth, hear his chuckle. He tightens his hold on me, carries me through the door into the darkness of our room, and deposits me on the bed. Before I can look around to see what he’s got planned, a piece of cloth has gone over my eyes and I’m blinded to him. I’d protest, but it excites me to not know exactly where he is. I turn my head eagerly when I hear noises off to my left, knowing he’s making them on purpose as he can move like a lynx when the mood takes him, which he all too frequently does. How many times have I been crept up on when I’ve been tapping away at the laptop or watching the TV, crept up on and ravished until I couldn’t think straight or even remember my own name. but now he’s deliberately making noises and moving objects. The soft, whispering sound of something material sliding off a table makes me shiver. I know that noise, I know the object it belongs to.

          “Remove your clothes,” he orders, this time directly in front of me. I scramble into a sitting position, try to imagine how he’s standing and what he’s doing. Picturing the flogger in his hand makes my stomach flip and the blood rush downwards. I unbutton my shirt, tossing it aside to what I guess is probably in the direction of empty floor space and then struggling with my trousers, I get them off eventually and toss them in the same direction as the shirt. “Underwear too, come on.” I smile involuntarily and take my boxers off. I stay kneeling in front of him, staring into the darkness of the cloth around my eyes, wondering how close he is. “Touch yourself,” he orders, his voice a lazy timbre that instantly sends a spark through me. I obey instantly, sliding my hand down my chest and finding my cock already half-hard. I reflect that he’s still having the same effect he did when we first met, still able to turn me on with just a word, just his voice and his manner. He’s almost too much sometimes. This is one of those times. Two or three strokes, and I’m painfully hard, already needing to grit my teeth and muffle the noises. “I want to hear every noise you make. No silence tonight. I want the neighbours to know how hard I fuck you.” The noise at make at those words could only be described as a mewl. Before I can really collect myself, hands are on me, dragging me to the edge of the bed, handling me until I’m bent over the rail at the foot, legs apart and hands gripping the sheets into balls, creasing them. I know what’s coming, and knowing but not seeing thrills me until I can hardly think straight, he stands behind me, and I can all but feel the crackle of his presence.

 

When it hits, I had heard none of the approach. I feel it though, and jolt forward into the rail, knowing I’ll probably have tell-tale hip-bone bruises tomorrow, not caring that I’ll be aware of them constantly. All I care about is that the flogger he is holding is velvet, my favourite and that he uses it so damn well, so practiced in the strength of the blows - strong enough to leave marks, strong enough so I’ll be aware of them when I sit down for the next few days, but gentle enough so they feel almost like a caress, like the flogger is kissing me. Obeying him, I let the moans slip out, let them escalate into cries of half-pained ecstasy as occasionally, I feel the whisper of a stray strand across my balls, and I emit low moans whenever I feel one. I don’t count, couldn’t count, couldn’t spare the brain power to count, all I know is the flogger is made of velvet and isn’t touching me enough. But he tosses it aside - I hear it hit the carpet, and hear him lift something from the table, hear the whisper of it over wood. “This is what we got in the mail today, boy. I’m going to use it on you, and you’re going to guess what it is. If you guess right, you’ll get a treat, but if you guess wrong, I won’t put a hand on your cock all evening.” 

          “Yes, Sir,” I say, although I pray to Gods that I guess it right. Only twice before has he refused to touch me, and both times I ended up begging like a madman, almost sobbing with the frustration. He fumbles with something, I hear the hiss of rope on rope, then feel surprising softness wind around my wrists, another rope go over my chest, and feel him anchor me securely to the bed post. He pauses for so long I think he’s done, but just as I’m opening my mouth to guess at what it is, I feel the strange softness surround my balls. I cry out, making an effort to control my hips, not to jerk, knowing he needs me to be still when he does this. As a reward, he kisses me long and deep when he’s finished. “Now, guess.” I’ve only ever felt one fabric as soft as the ropes now encircling me in so many different places.

          “Silken ropes, Sir.” I hear his chuckle.

          “Clever boy.” I smile, and I feel him move up behind me. Whether he’s been touching himself while flogging me I don’t know, but he’s hard, hard and hot against me, and he lets me feel him before he pulls away. There’s the rustle of a foil package, then he moves up behind me. His preparation of me is rough, quick, and then his fingers are gone and his cock is pushing against me, slipping inside, filling me until he’s all I feel, until the feel of him inside me is overwhelming. I clutch the bed frame desperately, and feel the ropes contract around my wrists as I pull, scrabble for a hold that never seems firm enough. The feel of the silk pulling against my skin, rubbing against my groin, teasing over my chest just adds to what he’s doing, to the steady thrusts that are just too slow and too gentle to do more than build and build and build a pressure in my stomach that makes the silken rope around my balls feel tighter and tighter, until I understand exactly what he’s done with it. I can’t come until he releases me, and if anything that thought makes my stomach tighten more and my cock twitch. Noises are spilling from my lips, noises I barely understand. This is different to every other time, different from the other times because it’s so much more intense. The softness against my skin, his hands burning their impression into my hips and his grunts behind me as he knows what it’s doing to me. My head is spinning, and I know full well that I would have come by now. Knowing it, feeling it, feeling more aroused than I ever have before. My legs are shaking almost uncontrollably, and I can feel myself starting to lose the ability to even stand. He slides his arm around my waist, the other around my chest, bending until he can hold me steady. Without his grip on me, I’d have crumpled to the floor, lost all control and lost my grip on the rail. I’m incoherent now. I’m not moaning now, I’m just mumbling, and none of it makes sense. “Tell me, you want come?” he pants, his hands tightening on me, arms contracting as he cages me.

          “Yes, Sir, please, please, God, yes, Sir, I want to come!” I feel a tug on the rope, it tightens for a split second, and then slides off me and I lose it instantly. I barely even notice he’s no inside me now, all I know if that I’m coming harder than ever, ever before. He didn’t even lay a finger on me, if anything he withdrew his contact and still I shattered into a thousand pieces at his feet. I’m not sure when I collapsed onto the floor, but my hands are still tied to the bedpost and my arms pulled above my head. My come is glistening on my legs, stomach and chest, and I feel shaky, uncollected.

          “Time for your treat, boy. Look up at me.” He’s taken the condom off and he’s stroking his cock, staring down at me. Kneeling at his feet might be my favourite place to be.

          “Can I suck your cock, Sir?”

          “You can have more than that, boy.” I feel the smile spread over my face. He’s going to let me swallow.

 

He unties the ropes that tether me to the bed, but leaves the ones over my chest and upper arms intact, restricting my movements enough that I have to kneel up fully, so I can‘t use my hands and it all rests on my mouth. He slides his hands into my hair, guides me onto his cock. I run my tongue down the underside, and he lets his hands drop, lets me dictate the pace. I know he’s close, the gasps and the jerks in his legs tell me that. I just scrape my bottom teeth over the soft skin of the head, and he’s coming. Coming hot and hard, and I swallow it eagerly, accepting it, loving it. He lets me do this when he considers I’ve earned it, and I love doing it, knowing it means I’ve pleased him and knowing it means I’ve done well.

 

He calms himself, gains his composure, undoes the last of the ropes, and picks me up. He carries me into the shower, sponges me off under the warm spray, kisses me tenderly, holds me close and still under the water, until both our hearts are steady and calmer. We dry one another, and I take his hand and lead him back to bed. And even though I never did get my bath, I fall asleep happily curled in his arms, feeling them caged around me.


End file.
